Forging Fire
by Farra Gate
Summary: In his past life, Emiya Shirou died bitter and alone at the end of the path he chose to walk. Now, alive and young once more, fate had paved a forked destiny ahead of him. Arriving at the crossroads, with the balance of the world hanging on the edge, could he make the right choice?
1. Prologue

**a/n: **I know, I know. I'm a terrible author. I've been neglecting my other fics for a while now and here I am starting another one. I just can't get this idea out of my head until I wrote it so I might as well post it.

I am sorry for not updating my other stories, I truly am. I've just really been in a slump lately; my life just seems so... bleak. Damn, I think I'm depressed. Y'all go easy on me, okay?

This prologue might seem a bit vague, but I'll clear it up later. Probably.

I've watched the first season of Korra and that's it, so let's all pretend it _never_ happened, yes? Okay.

* * *

_Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place._ \- Lance Armstrong

* * *

**FORGING FIRE**

**Prologue**

Deliriously blinking his only operable eye in the dim light, he struggled to place where he was.

Memories assaulted his mind. Not his, yet belonging to him.

Innocent, naive, hopeful... there was a boy atop a grassy hill with a happy smile, a proud father beside him. It's as if they were on the other side of a mirror; intangible, unreal. He knew it so because the mirror started to crack, a spiderweb of fizzures tracing the reflective surface, before it finally shattered into a thousand pieces.

He remembered wandering around large, empty halls, searching for something, someone whom had left him behind. He saw serpents lurking in the corners, eyes fierce and gleaming with malice.

_"Who's gonna make me? Mom?" _a girl taunted, gripping his prized dagger with a smug smirk.

An image of a woman in the dark of the night flashed in his mind, and he tried to grasp onto her, but she disappeared like the shadows of a forgotten dream.

A man stood before him, proud and powerful and strong, a hand outstretched toward his face, and then...

He lifted a hand to his face, coming to a stop at the edge of the cloth that covered half his head. It was with numb shock that he realized that he'd been injured; burned and scarred and shamed, and his other eye couldn't see.

Perhaps to a normal person, the pain of the injury could've been unbearable. But for him, it was nothing compared to the agony of fraying his nerves day after day, which had always felt like shoving hot iron rod through his spine while his body was set ablaze. The pain was distant, so was all the sensory details fed to his brain. As if he was just someone inside looking out; an alien in his own body.

He stretched his hand above him, looking it over with a mixture of awe and fascination. It almost unnerved him how small and delicate the appandages looked, so unlike the large and worn out ones he was so used to see.

These, these aren't his hands. He knew, because he'd already lived a life. He had already been reborn in the flickering embers of a cursed fire, and then died pursuing an impossible dream. Would fate be so ironic as to give him a cursed life once more?

It had happened so long ago, and yet he could still vividly recall the crackles of the burning inferno lapping on his heels, the anguished cries of those he left behind so that he could live, and the poignant smell of smoke and sulfur, tainted, black icor, and roasted flesh suffocating his senses.

Where hundreds of others had lost their lives, he had been saved.

No different than a new born babe, that burning hell had been his first memory, and his salvation became the foundation of his hopes, dreams, and personality. Lying empty and hopeless, seeing that sad, broken man smiling so beautifully while crying tears of joy as he held his small hand to his cheek, it had mesmerized him.

He had wanted to smile like that.

The last night he spent with that man, he had imparted an unfulfilled dream to him. Before the man took his last breath, he promised that he'd fulfill that dream in his stead. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he had never been prepared for the difficulties that lay ahead.

In his single-minded pursuit of that dream, he realized that everything came at a price. The path he chose to walk was wrought with hard decisions. It was a measure of his determination, of how much of his principles and morals were he willing to sacrifice.

Would he abandon the few for the salvation of the many? Was he willing enough to part with the people he cared about, to leave a place that he'd grown to know, or was the dream not worth it after all? He weighed the worth of people on a scale, balanced lives precariously on the palm of his hands, that the beautiful dream he tried so hard to achieve became ugly and tainted.

To be betrayed by your own ideals, it was devastatingly painful.

Nothing but a life full of regrets lulled him to death; the cold darkness a bitter solace from the burn of his exhausted magic circuits and the pain and ache of wounds and broken bones.

And now he was born anew, once upon a time from a cursed fire, and once more in a nation of fire. How truly ironic.

If he just closed his eyes, he could feel the crackles of a flame pulsating in his core like a second heartbeat. It begged and pleaded to be let out; to consume and devour, resonating with the twenty-seven dormant circuits mapping the entirety of his body.

_Trace. On_.

Almost instinctively, the hammer had been pulled, the gun cocked, and the bullet was fired.

He gritted his teeth, suppressing the cry of pain from escaping his lips as the darkness behind his eyelids exploded in painful, hypnotic swirls. His entire body burned, but none as intense as the sudden blazing agony that suffused his healing wound. He couldn't help it; he _screamed_.

A figure of a man towered over him as he kneeled, as he _begged_, fire blooming on his hand.

_"You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher."_

The man's fire had burned more than the surface. It left a scar in his soul that would never heal.

His Reality Marble, his inner world, shied away from his touch. It was still there, but somewhat different. It had changed, just as how he had changed, and it was so very painful. It was as if his very being had been ripped apart and then shoved back together incorrectly.

An eternity could have come and gone before the pain finally subsided, leaving a searing throb behind his burned skin. It felt like it was still sizzling even when the wound was already healing.

When he opened his uncovered eye again, the door to his cramped metal room had clicked shut. An old, stout man decked in elaborate, fancy red and gold robes glided to his side, the aroma of freshly brewed tea wafting from the tray he brought. The burning torches illuminated the wisdom that swam in the depths of the man's amber eyes, concern and sympathy obvious in its shallows.

The man stared at his ragged and sweaty form before he sighed, laying down the tray and taking a seat beside his cot. The slow, rhythmic sway of the waves gave his iridescent eyes the allure of serenity in the dim candlelight.

"Uncle," he called rasply, testing his voice and the name on his tongue.

As if he'd finally grasped the key that opened the proverbial Pandora's box, the puzzle pieces fell into place. He remembered what his father had decreed; why he was inside this small metal ship, injured, and with only his uncle and a crew of misfits as company.

_Find and capture the Avatar, only then could he come home._

There was something so woefully amusing about the irony of it all; how he had stubbornly chased an unattainable ideal in his past, and now he was forced to pursue something equally impossible.

* * *

General Iroh watched as a bitter laugh escaped from the boy's lips, his visible eye rolling at the back of his head as unconsciousness claimed him once more.

His nephew's scream was what brought him to the boy's private cabin, thinking that the pain and confusion upon awakening in an unfamiliar place had assaulted the poor prince. Looking at him now, though, the retired general couldn't mistake that something had changed since this morning when he last checked on the boy.

The old general had seen many things; had went through a number of things a man like him had no business experiencing, and he could tell that something in the grand scale of things had shifted. Something new had been added to the board; something that could, mayhap, tip the outcome of the game either way. The atmosphere around him shimmered, as if the spirits themselves were unsettled.

The former crown prince of the Fire Nation and Grandmaster of the Order of the White Lotus smiled. Perhaps there was still lingering hope for the world yet.

* * *

**a/n: **It's like, have you ever wondered what would happen if Zuko was just a little bit more wise and less the raging, emotionally stunted, indecisive teenage spoiled prince in the series? I mean, he could've been really likable from the start. Shirou was just Shirou, and he's my favorite anime character. Inserting him in Zuko after his banishment was a bit hard to explain. So basically, everything was Zuko before he was burned by Ozai. The rest would be a mix of both. Oh, and he's keeping the scar, too.

The Shirou I used here is pre-Archer. Instead of being hanged for false accusations and sacrificing his afterlife to Alaya, he just died bitter and exhausted. Note that he wasn't contented when he died, so he'd be a bit more cynical and ruthless than the Counter Guardian (to my knowledge, CG EMIYA became bitter not because he died condemned by the people he saved, but because Alaya used him to slaughter and massacre people, not save them). And he won't have full access to his Reality Marble yet, either, since I'm changing his Aria. Using his circuits and firebending would be really painful for him as well. I'll explain why later.

So what you think?

Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter I

**a/n: **Didn't expect me to come back so soon, did you?

* * *

_Having a sense of purpose is having a sense of self. A course to plot is a destination to hope for. - _Bryant H. McGill

* * *

**FORGING FIRE**

**Chapter I**

A child, barely a boy early in his teens took a deep steady breath, his gold-amber eyes snapping open with hardened determination as he settled on the opening stance.

He knew the forms, he'd practiced it before a hundred times till he could do it in his sleep. They were instinctual; engraved in his person and as much a part of him as his inner fire.

Graceful and lithe, his body slid from step to step fluidly with practiced ease. The series of smooth movements continued with a succession of deliberate punches and snapping kicks, as if a dance to a rhythm that only he could comprehend. Every set of forms followed an invisible straight path; from point A to point B, and then back again, like a neverending cycle.

The flame inside him was stoked with every controlled breath, writhing like a caged beast as it fought to break free. It wanted to join the dance, to taste the heated sea breeze; it wanted to consume.

Sweat trickled from his temple and down to his chin, dripping on the metal deck of his ship almost painfully slowly. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain that laced his soul and lingering within the empty whole his father burned.

He had told Iroh how his burned eye had hurt whenever he tried to firebend, and the old general had been stricken and horrified upon hearing it.

A firebender's fire comes from his chi, his vital energy. It was his will, his intent and spirituality; his internal health. If his very own fire was hurting him, it means he had been damaged not just physically, but also spiritually.

He'd burst on a bitter, hollowed laughter at that. He wondered what his uncle had thought, realizing that his own father had intended to have him killed, not survive through the pain. The kind old general had tried to dance around the severity of his situation, but he knew better.

Unless he endured the pain, or maybe find a spiritual healer, firebending would be worthless, perhaps he'd even lose his inner world.

Now, that was _just_ unacceptable.

He'd shed blood, sweat, and tears to open and master his Reality Marble; loosing it would mean that everything he went through in his past meant nothing.

He couldn't accept that. He _wouldn't_.

Pain, he knew. He was familiar with it. He could even find solace in it; helping him appreciate the fact that he was still alive, and it made him stronger. He'd grown accustomed, almost reassured, really, to its constancy in his life. Sometimes, it was the only thing that helped him get through every coming dawn and continue pursuing his foolish dream.

He had an entire lifetime to endure it. This time wasn't any different.

As he finished his set with closed eyes and a deep calming breath, he felt a scowl settling on his face.

The pinpricts at the back of his head was irritating, like an annoying itch that egged and taunted to burn everything around him.

_They thought they were discrete enough; they thought he couldn't hear them._

His nose flared, a bitter snarl bitten on his tongue.

_"The spoiled prince, thrown away by his own father."_

_"Rumor has it that he's been disowned because he's a pathetic bender."_

_"A crown prince who lost his honor in a fire duel, he's a disgrace to the royal family."_

Each gossip hurt more painful than the last, and his incompetent, uncultivated crew clung onto them like a bunch of squealing banshees. He knew better than to be affected, but he couldn't help it.

They didn't know what he'd been through; how much he'd lost.

Unless the Avatar was found, he could never return home.

_Home_. It didn't have to mean anything; it _used to_ mean nothing.

As Emiya Shirou, he had already abandoned every right he had to be happy, to care, and to be cared for. In the midst of that accursed fire so long ago, he had traded those privileges for the price of survival. He was destined to live and die alone atop a hill of swords the moment Emiya Kiritsugu embued the Everdistant Utopia in his soul.

He had struggled to repay that price; to pay for every wail, every cry for salvation that he'd ignored. Almost selfishly, he had relentlessly dedicated everything he was to be selfless. He had travelled from battlefield to battlefield, tiding over raining gunfire, and hunting the occasional monsters of the Moonlit World.

He had no home. He could say he had lost it, but then, it was entirely his fault.

He remembered a roaring tiger who would hungrily devour everything he set on the table. A gentle kohai who helped him in the kitchens. A fiery, twin-tailed tsundere who held on for as long as she could. A beautiful white snow princess who made his life meaningful, even for just a year. And an ethereal king, a knight, who learned to accept her flaws and be stronger for it.

Whenever he thought of home, they were what came first to his mind.

They used to be his home.

However, in his relentless pursuit of his dream, he had forgotten. What was it that made him take the path he chose?

He wanted to save everyone, to make a world where no one has to be sad, but in doing so, he had abandoned the people who mattered to him.

It was so pitifully hypocritical.

If he could meet his younger past self even for a moment, he'd end that idiotic existence just for hurting the people who cared for him with his foolish naivete.

Maybe, if he knew then what he knew now, he'd learn to cherish the people who were willing to put up with him. Maybe he wouldn't have been alone. And when everything he stood for began to crumble and crash down beneath his feet, he would have someone to lean on to. Maybe he wouldn't die drowning in bitterness and full of regrets.

Now, in this world, he had a family; a _real_ family.

It was dysfunctional and broken; but it was his.

He could still vividly remember a time before that, before the lust for power, the desire to conquer, and the poisonous envy.

They lived in a beautiful manor near the beach of Ember Island, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore an enchanting rhythm and the sunset and sunrise celebrating kaleidoscopic colors as the sea and sky met on the horizon. His father wasn't always a monster; he used to be a reserved husband, a supportive father, a good brother, and an obedient son. Once upon a time, Azula wasn't the ruthless little sadist trying to suffocate him in his sleep; she used to be his adorable, sweet little sister who clung unto him like inseparable glue. His kind, lovely mother would always take all of them to the theatre and watch the humorous and wonderful plays, eating fireflakes and making fun of the actors.

Those memories always gave him hope, that perhaps piecing his family back together was worth facing the impossible.

Opening his eye once more, he dismissed the anger from his system. He whirled around to face his uncle, the stiff ponytail on the crown of his head swishing with his motion, and gave the man a traditional Fire Nation bow to end the routine.

The retired Dragon of the West sat under an umbrella a few feet away from him with his ever present tea set, sipping a cup of Ginseng as he watched him practice the basic firebending forms. The old man nodded gravely, his eyebrows kneaded in contemplation while a crease of concern formed on the corner of his mouth.

"A fine performance, Prince Zuko," he complimented, setting down his cup. "Your breathing control has improved, but you should remember to keep your balance. An enduring tree has firm roots, lest, a mere gust of wind will topple it."

"I understand, Uncle," he replied, taking the red cloth prepared for him to dry his sweaty skin.

The former general gave him a queer look, almost as if expecting a different reaction.

He just shrugged.

The sun was nearing to set, and he'd been practicing the same basic forms over and over again every day for the past week since he'd been strong enough to move. Perhaps the old man was expecting him to complain. He felt like he should, but he wasn't going to bother. If merely stroking his inner fire felt like he's gauging his eye out, he wondered how worse it would be if he'd actually summoned it out. Truthfully, he wasn't ready to find out just yet.

When he sat on the seat beside his uncle, the old man poured him his own cup of tea. Thanking him for it, he gratefully enjoyed the calming hot beverage.

Iroh beamed at him.

"It gives this old man great joy to see a family member appreciate a well-brewed cup of Ginseng," he softly intoned. "Oh, how it hurt me so when my own nephew used to call it 'hot leaf juice'," he added with a hearty chuckle.

He sipped his tea, soaking in its aroma.

"Perhaps I've learned to appreciate having someone to share it with," he replied, his memory drifting back to the times he'd spend with his old man. They could watch the starry night sky together while drinking tea for all eternity, and he doubt it would be enough.

"Indeed, life is oftentimes hard, only with companionship can we learn to find happiness in the few good things that comes our way," his uncle told him with a twinkle in his amber eyes, "much better, of course, if shared over a warm cup of tea."

He smiled wistfully, and his understanding uncle let him stew on his thoughts. A peaceful silence settled between them as they watched the sun slowly drift down the horizon, bathing the western sky with myriad of bright, beautiful colors. Only when Lieutenant Ji walked towards them did they snapped away from the breathtaking view.

"My Prince," the Lieutenant called, his tone bordering disrespectful, "General. You have yet to chart a course since we've left Fire Nation waters. On behalf of the crew, I implore you specify a destination shortly. Drifting in the ocean with no direction to go makes the crew antsy."

Lieutenant Ji was one of the handful firebenders aboard his small ship. He was a misfit, just as the rest of the crew was. He was demoted and reassigned under his command by the Firelord himself, for insubordination according to the rumor mill; talking back to his commanding officer, and then losing in an Agni Kai after demanding one. It was pitiful really, how they were almost a mirror of each other. It's as if Firelord Ozai intended him to remember how pathetic he was wherever he looked.

His father could be funny when he wanted to, apparently. Too bad he always ended up being the punchline.

As the Lieutenant's new superior, there was no love lost between the two of them. It seemed Lieutenant Ji just hated being under any command. It made him wonder why the man was a marine in the first place, then he realized, he probably didn't have a choice. Reading his information sheet, he'd decided to give him control of the wheel. That way, he could avoid him as often as he could. Not that he's afraid of confrontation, mind you, he just couldn't be bothered by the man's issues.

Fortunately, it seemed he at least held respect for his uncle. That's good enough, he supposed.

"Prince Zuko, have you decided on a destination yet?" his uncle asked submissively, turning to face him with deference.

He inwardly sighed. Iroh, it seemed, had caught on the tension between them and was showing the Lieutenant that he was still the owner and captain of this ship. Or maybe he just couldn't decide.

He mulled for a moment.

Finding the Avatar was improbable, but not truly impossible. No one had seen him for almost a hundred years, but he guessed no one as desperate as him had looked hard enough.

"The Air Temples," he answered. "Let's start with the Western, since it is the closest."

* * *

**a/n: **Well, a bit short, eh? It's to be expected, I guess, since I wrote this on my phone. Lol. I hope you at least enjoyed it. Expect most of my chapters like this, 'cause yeah, my muse is on-the-go.

No sword spamming yet. He could probably do it, access his magecraft, that is, if he sets his mind to it. After all, Shirou Emiya's pain tolerance is god-like. Lol.

Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter II

_Our doubts are traitors,_  
_and make us lose the good we oft might win,_  
_by fearing to attempt._

\- William Shakespeare

* * *

**FORGING FIRE**

**Chapter II**

General Iroh sat stiffly beside his nephew, holding the boy's shoulders steady as their on board healer changed his wound's dressing. The burns were healing nicely, but it would no doubt leave an unsightly scar.

He inwardly grimaced, seeing the cloth slowly being peeled away from the damaged skin. It started from beside the bridge of his nose, flaring like a burning comet past his mangled ear, and its tail end extending all the way to his shaved head. The worst of it was exactly where his left eye was, making the two lids uneven.

The healer gently applied the healing salve over the wound. The sickening sweet smell of honey was overpowering, almost masking the enticing scent of opium and belladonna on the dressing. Just watching it done made the flesh under his skin crawl. He could only marvel at the boy's bravery and discipline, as he didn't even flinch when he could tell how much it hurt him at the hard clench of his jaw. He had witnessed grown men thrash and cry for smaller wounds. It truly saddened him to see a child suffer an injury while so young.

Zuko, however, wasn't just any child; he was his nephew, so he felt ten times more solemn and grieved.

Looking at the cauterized, ugly wound, it was more than the proof he needed to know that Ozai had attempted to end his own son's life.

Lu Ten had been Iroh's light; he was his everything. He was the only connection he had left to his beloved wife; their precious little boy. When he died, buried beneath the eartbenders' rocks, it was as if his heart had been crushed by those stones as well. He felt every crack of broken bones, the agony of being hopeless, unable to do anything as the earth swallowed him whole. He felt rage, anguish and grief in overwhelming, unending waves. With all the might dancing in his fingertips and the army of soldiers that rallied behind him, he'd never felt more powerless. Losing a son, his own flesh and blood, it was unbearable.

Ozai... how much of a monster had he become since they moved in the palace so as to be as unfeeling of that?

"How is it?" Iroh asked with concern once the doctor had finished redressing the wound.

Wei, the healer, tittered with nervousness. He ran a cloth over his suddenly sweaty face, frizzy greying hairs springing free from his slick topknot.

Perhaps he's making too stern a face. Realizing so, he softened his features.

"The, there's only so much I can do, Prince Iroh," Wei stuttered, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. "I believe, I-I fear that even if it fully healed, he would keep the, the... s-scar."

Iroh grimaced with Wei. Well, he had expected it. He glanced at his nephew, anticipating a temperamental explosion. Zuko was still young, barely thirteen as it was, and he'd been severely traumatized; it was within his rights to be angry.

But there was no raging tantrum, not even a whine. The banished crown prince sat still, his face a mask of indifference.

"I know," Zuko assured, almost too calm. The boy's only eyebrow was furrowed as he stood, shrugging Iroh's hands and standing in front of the Fire Nation's golden insignia. "You are dismissed."

Wei, hearing the order, scrambled to gather his paraphernalia, and then respectfully bowed before leaving the quarters.

Iroh settled on the boy's cot, absentmindedly straightening the creases on the red cloth.

"Both of you, uncle," the young prince added quietly. "I need to be alone with my thoughts."

Iroh sighed, fluffing the soft pillow.

"It is not healthy to linger in the past, nephew. There is no burden you have to carry alone," he advised wistfully. "I accompanied you on your mission not just as your firebending instructor, you know, but also as your uncle. If there is something you couldn't accomplish on your own, I will always be willing to lend a hand."

More than that, Iroh thought, he came to guide the young prince towards the right path.

Iroh had been broken hearted when Lu Ten died, and that sorrow had led him to take a spiritual journey. He wanted to see his son again, for the last time, but the spirits were not so kind. Instead of finding his son, he'd been entrusted with the care of his nephew.

The world was out of balance, and with the Avatar lost, the spirits were in disarray. When the bid for the fate of the world begins, his young nephew will play a major role; whether to tear it asunder, or bestow it salvation, would be his choice to make. This knowledge, it was the only thing the spirits gifted him for his troubles, and with it came a new purpose for him. Perhaps, when his time comes, he could spend an eternity with his son and wife, but not yet.

Coming back home to the Capital as a man with a mission, he was taken aback at the state it had descended into since he left. He'd been passed on as heir to the throne, his father was dead, and Ursa was gone.

Ozai had learned to play the game, and he'd turned the tables to his advantage during Iroh's weakest. Almost twenty years his junior, his younger brother had grown horns and a tail to match in the midst of his prime; Iroh was no match as he was now. He was just a shadow of his glory days, but it didn't mean that he was going down without a fight. Iroh was, after all, still a part of the conniving royal family. If there's anything they had in spades, it's tactical brilliance and far-encompassing plans.

Ozai was clever, ruthless, and powerful, but he too committed a grave mistake in his carelessness and self-confidence. His first mistake was exiling Zuko outside the Fire Nation, outside his control, and the second was when he thrusted him into Iroh's open arms.

_My dear brother, you still have a lot to learn..._

When the boy, who had settled on crossing his arms over his chest as he sulked, had nothing to say back, Iroh sighed once more. He aligned the pillow on the cot, but something slipped from beneath it. His leather hands touched a piece of parchment, folded neatly and stowed safely underneath the soft cushion.

"What is this?" he had wondered aloud. Before he could unfold it, however, it was already snatched away from his grasp.

Zuko pursed his lips, hiding the parchment inside his sleeve.

Iroh gave him a queer look.

The boy was the first to take his gaze away.

"It's a letter," he confessed, stoic. "To Azula."

Iroh watched him fidget in his robes.

"I know we rarely got along, but she's still my sister," Zuko supplemented as his look was drawn to his feet. "I won't send it, though. I doubt it will reach her,"

Iroh's heart swelled. He smiled with something akin to pride at the damaged, wonderful boy.

_Gently now, not like a burst of scorching fire, but like the steady flow of a trickling stream. With time and perseverance, even the strongest wall will wear away and crumble._

"Why would you think it won't reach her?" Iroh asked curiously.

Zuko huffed, a self-deprecating crease forming on the corner of his lips.

"I'm not dumb, uncle. Azula is everything father wanted for an heir; the perfect little prodigy. He wouldn't want his failure of a son to taint his precious pet project," he replied bitterly. "He'll have the letter burned before it even landed, maybe even the messenger hawk along with it."

Zuko's eyes reflected the dancing flames of the candlelight, an iridescent pale gold drowned helplessly in sorrow and sadness.

"Now that I'm out here, away from that dark, unfamiliar place the palace had become, I realized that I'm free, but Azula is still in that cage," he forlornly continued, his fists clenched. "I can't go home. I'm too far away now, and I'm weak. My words can't even reach her..." He gritted his teeth, his mind getting lost somewhere painful. "Older brothers are supposed to protect their little sister."

Iroh couldn't help but engulf the tensed boy in his arms, letting him sink in his comforting warmth.

"If it truly means that much to you, my nephew, then trust this old man with your letter. I will make sure that it will be transferred safely onto Azula's hands."

The genuine smile that stretched his nephew's lips was almost heartbreakingly miniscule, but it gave Iroh a little bit more hope.

The Dragon of the West received the parchment with care, hiding it in his sleeves just as Zuko had done.

"Now rest, Prince Zuko," he told him, patting a thin shoulder. "I'll inform Lieutenant Ji that we are making a slight detour to resupply and refuel."

Only when the boy agreed to rest did he turned to walk away, light on his step.

Ozai had left his mark on the boy, they were, after all, father and son by blood. That was not to say that Ursa had neglected to give him as much of a part of herself that she could give.

Zuko has a very conflicting destiny ahead of him, and with his choice, the fate of the world would follow. It was reassuring to know, that at least, he was beginning to steer towards the right direction.

_My brother, pray that our paths do not cross again in the near future. You have a lot to answer for..._

* * *

He had dreamt of fire and swords.

The sky was dark, the clouds a melancholic gray as it threatened to cry, and yet not a single drop quenched the dry land. Instead, it was soot and ashes that slowly rained down from above like drifting snowflakes. The sun hid behind smokes and shadows, the mystery of time as immediate as the suffocating scent of sulfur, rust, and dried blood.

Everything was bleak and grey for as far as his eyes could see, the line where the horizon began and ended a blur in the distance. The cogs of gears suspended above him were quiet and unmoving, and it was almost as unnerving as, well, everything else.

The only illumination that lit up his world was the crackling embers beneath his feet, like red-orange patches of grass growing from the dark ground, reflected on the shine of his steel weapons.

Every sword and weapon he'd encountered, every shield and armor he came across, they were strewn across his lands like discarded tools. Swords of mundane and legendary make intermingled as they stood protruding from the ground, blade buried deep while their hilts reached for the unreachable sky, not unlike silent graves that awaited for their maker to use them.

Waking up from that vision of his world, of his Reality Marble, he had felt a drowning sense of self-deprecation. His Reality Marble was a reflection of his soul, to see it severely damaged and so much more depressing than the sunset desert of his past, it made him realize how pitiful his life had become. It was anything but a dream; it was a nightmare.

Truthfully, when Iroh had shook him awake to inform him that the ship had docked in one of the Fire Nation colonies in the Earth Kingdom, his day had already turned sour. The loud, staring crowd of the market and his uncle's careless spending just made the corners of his mouth dig deeper down his face.

"Quit your scowling, nephew," Iroh had heartily said as he picked a useless set of curios from a seedy merchant. It was overpriced, and it seemed the old man did not notice, nor care. "Such treasures, oh I have stumbled upon a tomb of them! Look at this fine piece! How wonderful! I will take it!"

He fought the urge to facepalm. Shaking his head in utmost irritation, he walked away from the excitable man.

"I'm going to look around, uncle," he told him before leaving. "And please, try not to spend too much. If all your things burden our ship, I wont hesitate to throw them overboard."

Iroh gasped dramatically, but he opted to not stay long to suffer his theatrics.

He had decided not to wear his royal armor while they shopped, so he'd worn a garment of simple, inconspicuous maroons. His phoenix tail had been retired for the day as he settled for a traditional topknot so that he could conceal his face under a hood. Even with all the trouble he'd gone through for a disguise, though, he couldn't fathom why people's stares were still drawn to him.

Was he really such an oddity?

_It's just a wound_, he told himself, _and it's dressed and bandage underneath a hooded cloak. It will heal, although the scar would stay. The world is at war, everybody had scars to prove a loss, whether physically or mentally. Everyone had something to lose in the midst of war._

They didn't have to look at him as if he's fragile. He didn't need their pity.

As he walked from stall to stall, observing the merchandise displayed and the enthusiastic merchants who advertised them, he couldn't help but feel that there was something wrong. He stopped at a small store, a collection of artistic paper masks mounted side by side on a wall. He stared at a particular mask; it was blue, with large, terrifying eyes and a toothy grin.

_Was it really grinning? Or was it silently crying?_

"That is the Blue Spirit." The owner of the store almost made him jump when he suddenly spoke. He'd been lost on the mask's emotion that he failed to sense the man's presence. "It is said that the Blue Spirit protects those who needed its protection, and punishes the people who commit terrible things."

He raised his only brow at the merchant. He was about to retort something excruciatingly cynical, but the crash at the neighboring store stilled his tongue. Curiously, he peered at the trouble brewing at the antique shop from a window.

A Fire Nation soldier pushed an old decorative vase from its place atop a table, shattering it into thousands of broken shards.

"What's going on in there," he wondered aloud to himself.

"Just the usual, Fire Nation demanding taxes," the owner of the masks store supplied. He glared at him, for he wasn't expecting an answer. The man just shrugged it off. "I wouldn't complain, but it gets too much. We're already barely surviving, and yet the Fire Nation would still suck us dry."

"Please," the woman, an Earth Kingdom decent pleaded, hugging her young daughter close. "We have no money to give. The store is barely earning as it is."

He watched, and he couldn't look away. His hand itched, a bitter stone lodged in his throat. If he gritted his teeth any tighter, his jaw might crack.

"Tax is the lifeblood of a governing body, ma'am. It's what feeds us and protects you," the soldier sneered, pilfering a pearl necklace from its display case, "and unless you pay it, you have no right to do business in Fire Nation territory."

"How can you say that?" the little Earth Kingdom brat foolishly accused, freeing herself from her mother's grasp and staring defiantly at the soldier. "You killed my Daddy! You don't protect us, you're just a big, mean bully!"

The man scowled. "You should discipline your child better, ma'am. Firebeders," he held fire in his palm, "can sometimes lose control of their fire."

He hated feeling this way.

He'd already left that ideal behind. He didn't want to be a hero anymore, but it seems old habits were just too hard to discard.

_The more things change._..

Before he even realized it, he'd already walked inside the antique shop almost involuntarily.

"That's enough."

The Fire Nation whirled around to face him, the fire still dancing in his hand.

"What business do you have here, boy?" he asked with a haughty leer.

He stood his ground, staring in the man's eyes. He removed a string pouch from his pocket and threw it at the soldier, which he deftly caught.

"I'll pay their tax, just this once," he replied.

The Fire Nation soldier frowned at him, but kept the money.

"Although you helped them now, this does not solve their situation, boy," the soldier told him. "In the next cycle of the moon, I will be back, and I doubt you'll be here to save them once more."

He ignored the twinge of his heart at the truth of his words.

"Does it matter?" he said dismissively. "You've got what you want, so leave."

The soldier scoffed, but walked away with not a chip in his dignity.

"Wait," he called. The firebender started, halting on his step. "Not before giving back what you stole and paying for what you broke."

His eye twitched. He dug his pockets for some coins and slammed it on the counter with the pearl necklace. Glaring at him, the Fire Nation soldier slid back his face plate and left the store.

"Thank you, little boy," the mother gratefully sobbed, her head bowed deeply. "We are in your debt, how could we ever repay you?"

He looked at the two of them indifferently.

"While his execution is deplorable, that man is just doing his job. If you can't afford the taxes, missus, then I suggest you quit doing business in Fire Nation territory," he coldly told her.

The young girl snarled at him, stepping protectively in front of her mother.

"You, you're just like them!" She pointed a finger at his face. "You Fire Nation are all the same. Scums!"

"Lin!"

"Teach your daughter to hold her tongue," he said with a huff. "Her impudence will get her killed someday."

Pulling the hood of his cloak down his face, he walked out of the shop without looking back. He couldn't bear to stare at the two of them any longer. Perhaps it was the mother's broken sobs, or the obvious hostility in the girl's green eyes, but the sight of them reminded him too much of his past.

The mask vendor awaited him outside the door, smiling at him kindly.

"Here," he said, handing him the blue Kabuki mask he'd been staring at in his stall. "You can have it, for free!"

He glanced at the mask, and then at the man.

"Why?" he asked. "I have no need for it."

"Does it matter?" the man echoed his words in the store. "You can have it, it's a gift from a generous merchant. After what you did in there, I think you more than deserve it."

He scoffed, taking the mask. "I'm not gonna thank you for it."

"I don't expect you to," the vendor retorted back.

* * *

When he returned back to the ship, it was already nightfall. General Iroh had enthusiastically encouraged a music party by the beach, inviting all the crew to join, even him, although he had resoundedly declined.

The Fire Nation did not dance, but they do had wonderful ballads and upbeat songs. Hearing them from the distance, his incompetent crew of misfits, trying to carry a tune with their improvised instruments, and his uncle serenading them with the anthems of his youth, it made him crack a smile.

Now that he was finally left alone with his thoughts in his private cabin, he stared at the mask in his hands, replaying the scene that late morning over and over again in his head.

His dream, the dream he inherited from Emiya Kiritsugu was a foolish dream; he'd already learned that lesson in his past. It was what lead him to his death, and even with his dying breath, though shameful to admit, he had yet to achieve it.

He promised himself that he'd never chase that impossibility again, that he'd leave it behind his previous life.

His goal was different now.

To find and capture the Avatar, return back to his homeland. To find his mother, see for himself that she's still alive. To free his sister, let her see the wonders of the world and that there's so much more beyond their unfeeling father's affection and recognition. To grow stronger, strong enough to teach his father a valuable lesson. He'll cut his horns and break his limbs, if he had to.

There's nothing more important to him now than his family. He'd damn the world if it's what it took.

_But..._

Seeing the mother cry as she plead, and the girl defying that soldier, the fire in his core flared up like an inferno. He couldn't stomach just standing by and witnessing the tragedy that could've occurred if he hadn't done anything.

The realization was like a punch to the gut, that even if he'd resolved himself to stop trying to reach that dream, his very existence denied that decision.

_How frustrating._

Perhaps it would be best if he just settled on a compromise. Emiya Shirou and Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation were two different persons, trying to achieve two separate goals.

Corruption, oppression, and poverty was a constancy in every era, even in war. He couldn't, wouldn't save everyone, maybe just the people around him. He doesn't have to go out of his way to save anyone, just the person in front of him, or the people he cared about.

He didn't have to be a hero to everyone, only to those who mattered.

Furrowing at the empty space in front of him, he stared at the decorative gilded dao swords mounted on one of his walls.

He knew how to use those two swords, his former master, Master Piandao had taught him well.

Those dao swords were useless, though; unbalanced and blunt as they were merely ornamental pieces. However, all the same, a copy of them had been stored in his lonely, grey world.

Emiya Shirou had been an unorthodox magus in his past, a third-rate at best, and he could only master the basics of thaumaturgy. Because of his specified Origin and Elemental Affinity, he could only be designated as a magus apprentice, or a spellcaster, since he did not follow the normal ways of magi.

Reinforcement, and by extension, Structural Grasp, was the foundation of his magecraft. Reinforcement allows him to analyze the structural composition of an object, and increase its effectiveness, like making it more durable or its shape more practical, or even return it to its original state. He can also use it to improve the physical capabilities of his own body, such as his eyesight, allowing him to see further away than he normally could. Structural Grasp, on the other hand, allows him to comprehend the structure and design of objects as if he were viewing a blueprint.

His most valuable mystery was Tracing, an advance form of Projection Magecraft. Unlike traditional Projection which only reproduces hollow and useless imitations, his Tracing ability could completely copy an object's creation and history, making its existence more stable, especially if it was a bladed weapon.

These abilities and his affinity with swords were concepts of his inner world, his Reality Marble; Unlimited Blade Works.

_Trace on._

Even mentally prepared, the pain that exploded in his body made him stumble on his feet. He gritted his teeth, riding away the pain as motes of prana gathered in his palms. Within mere seconds, a second pair of dao swords appeared in his grip, altered to fit his hands and sharpened to cut metal like soft butter.

The excruciating pain he felt was unreal, and it was all in his head; at least that what he repeatedly told himself as he endured the burning in his limbs and the throbbing sensation of being stabbed repeatedly in the eye by a supper-heated spoon.

Pushing up his body to an upright position, he twirled the twin swords in his hands, testing its heft and slicing thin air.

His room was too cramped to practice his swordsmanship. Grabbing a set of black tight-fitting clothes, he took the blue mask along with him, and stole into the night.

And so, the Blue Spirit had been brought to life.

* * *

**a/n: **This was so hard to put into words... I'm having trouble building his personality. It's supposed to be a combination of Archer's pessimistic perspective, and Zuko's hopeful but conflicting emotions. The result is, well, a mess. (Yeah, I'm scratching my head in frustration right now.)

Truthfully, this was supposed to be longer, but I'd decided to cut off Azula's PoV and just add it to the next chapter. The Gaang will probably make an appearance after that 'cause I'd just decided to write long expositions on what shenanigans Zuko/Shirou had been through during the three-year gap.

This storyline would be drifting along canon from time to time. Assume that the unmentioned scenes occurred according to canon.

Thanks for reading!


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